COLUMBIA  LIBRARIES  OFFSITE 

HEALTH  SCIENCES  STANDARD 


HX641 35586 
RC312  .C35  Watching  the  hour-gl 


Columbia  SBnifaergitp 
in  tfje  €itv  of  i9etu  gorfe 

COLLEGE  OF  PHYSICIANS 
AND   SURGEONS 


Reference  Library 

Given  by 


1^ 

OORmASS 


BY 

jTEPHEN(llALME]rf 


It  IS  wortk  a  tkousand  pounds 
a  year  to  nave  the  naDit  of 
looking  on  tke  trigkt    side    of 

things,— Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 


iatrhttig  tl|p  Ifour-C^laaa 

By  Stephen  Ckalmers 


"And  if  any  man  think  that  he  knoweth 
any  thing,  he  knoweth  nothing  yet  as  he 
ought  to  know." — 1  Cor.  viii.  2. 


OJIyp  Aiirnttiark  Stttfrprtsp  ^rwa 


aOh..  .  r^^.:^  ThoAL 


'fl2. 


Copyright,  1909, 
By  the  Pearson  Publishing  Co. 

Copyright,   1913, 
By  The  Adirondack  Enterprise  Press. 


Note 

II AM  indebted  to  Pearson's  Magazine,  in 
which  this  article  was  first  published 
in  March,  1909,  for  permission  to  reproduce 
it  in  its  present  form.  I  would  also  like  to 
make  acknowledgement  to  Mr.  James 
Creelman,  master  journalist,  for  the  sym- 
pathetic preface  which  he  wrote  upon  read- 
ing- the  original  manuscript. 

-S.  C. 


Ktitroh«rtt!in 

(Editorial  from  The  New  York  Times) 

^O  enormous  has  the  "literature"  of 
2?'  tuberculosis  come  to  be  of  late  years 
that  to  say  anything-  new  on  the  subject  is 
a  task  of  exceeding-  difficulty.  It  has  been 
performed,  however,  by  Stephen  Chalmers 
in  an  article  entitled  "Watching-  the  Hour- 
Glass." 

His  success  is  due  in  part  to  the  fact 
that  he  brought  to  the  study  of  consump- 
tives and  consumption,  as  seen  at  one  of 
the  Adirondack  sanatoria,  powers  of  ob- 
servation made  keen  without  being-  ren- 
dered inaccurate  by  the  poetic  imagination 
which  is  so  often  necessary  for  sympathetic 
interpretation.  It  results  still  further, 
however,  from  the  fact  that  he  utilizes  the 
terrible  advantage  of  being  a  part  of  what 
he  described.  It  is  not  by  hearsay,  by  the 
use  of  his  eyes  and  ears,  that  he  knows 
what  it  is  for  a  man  with  more  dependents 
than  money  to  be  told  that  he  has  tuber- 
culosis of  the  lungs  and  that  his  chance 
for  life  lies  in  abandonment  of  work  for 
an  indefinite  but  certainly  long  period  and 
in  taking  a  not  inexpensive  course  of 
treatment  in  a  remote  but  not  inexpensive 
mountain  village. 

This  was  Mr.  Chalmers'  own  experience, 
and,  being  a  trained  maker  of  "copy,"  he 
watched  his  own  emotions  as  well  as  felt 
them,  then  and  afterward,  as  well  as  the 
emotions  and  actions  of  those  other  exiles 


to  the  wilds  with  whom  he  soon  found  him- 
self living-.  Dark  as  is  the  picture  he 
draws,  most  people  will  probably  be  sur- 
prised that  it  is  not  darker  still — ^that  it  is 
lighted  by  many  a  cheerful  and  even 
humorous  g-leam.  The  horrors  are  there, 
but  thej'  are  not  exactly  the  horrors  that 
one  would  expect,  and  the  hopelessness  of 
other  days  is  gone.  All  except  a  few  of 
the  patients  have  a  fighting  chance,  the 
majority  of  them  something  more,  and  not 
a  few  the  assurance  of  an  approach  to  com- 
plete recovery.  The  proverbial  courage  of 
the  consumptive  is  nowadays  something 
more   than  that  of  despair. 

Besides  being  admirably  written,  Mr. 
Chalmers'  article  is  of  practical  value  in 
that  it  will  help  others  over  what  he  found 
the  crudest  parts  of  his  own  experience^ 
the  time  immediately  following  the  an- 
nouncement of  his  condition,  the  journey 
into  the  woods,  the  first  hours  after  ar- 
rival. The  realities  were  better  than,  as 
well  as  diiferent  from,  the  expectations, 
and  so  far  from  lugubrious  is  the  sana- 
torium life,  that  not  infrequently  it  is 
unnecessarily  prolonged  by  contented 
patients. 


Watrlitng  thf  Ifour-CllasB 


JpVERY  time  a  heart  can  be  made  to 
>*  thrill  with  sympathy  for  others,  the 
cause  of  humanity  advances.  The  great 
silent  trag-edy  of  tuberculosis,  which  has 
its  victims  in  nearly  every  family,  has  so 
stirred  the  civilized  world  that  interna- 
tional congresses  have  met  to  discuss  it. 
But  the  professional  jargon  of  the  doctors, 
the  wrangling  of  different  schools  of 
science,  leave  the  imagination  of  the 
strong  and  well  unmoved.  One-third  of  all 
the  recorded  deaths  in  middle  age  in  the 
world  are  caused  by  tuberculosis,  a  pre- 
ventable and,  it  is  said,  curable  disease. 
It  is  the  chief  shame  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion. 

In  this  touching  picture  of  the  alternate 
horror  and  hope  of  a  victim  of 
tuberculosis  struggling  for  life  vdth 
his  fellow  invalids  in  the  Adiron- 
dack woods,  the  author  has  revealed 
intimate  details  of  his  private  life 
and  affairs,  without  which  the  story  could 
not  be  told.  He  holds  his  very  heart  in 
his  hands  that  you  may  see  it  beat. 

If  the  article  can  reach  into  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  public,  if  it  can  awaken 
the  flame  of  love  sufficiently  to  add  even 
a  single  crusader  to  the  noble  army  that  is 
fighting  against  the  "white  plague,"  it  will 
have  served  the  purpose  of  its  author  and 
its  publishers. 

—JAMES  CEEELMAN. 


Hatrtjittg  %  f  nur-OllaajS 


WTHE  doctor  had  more  sympathy  to  spare 
^  than  tim^e,  so  his  assistant  received 
me.  To  my  mind  there  was  instantly  an 
omen  in  the  general  nature  of  the  con- 
versation betw^een  the  younger  physician 
and  myself.  He  seemed  to  be  sparring  for 
time.  It  argued  no  good  finding  from  a 
previous  visit. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened  and  the  great 
man  appeared.  I  can  see  him  still — the  tall 
figure,  the  somber,  immaculate  dress  and 
the  calm,  intellectual  face.  He  pulled  the 
door  quietly  after  him  and  stood  in  relief 
against  it,  very  erect,  with  his  hands  on  the 
door-knob  behind  him. 

"In  certain  cases,"  he  said,  with  kindly 
abruptness,  "I  do  not  believe  in  wasting 
words.  I  am  sorry,  but  I  find  that  you  are 
suffering  from  tuberculosis  of  the  lungs." 

"You  don't  say,"  I  remarked,  inanely. 

There  was  silence.  It  was,  in  real  life, 
that  much-discussed  picture,  "Sentenced 
to  Death,"  wherein  the  doctor's  gaze  is 
fixed   on  a  pale  young  man,   whose   eyes. 


11 


looking  out  of  the  canvas,  see  and  express 
nothing. 

But,  in  my  own  ease,  I  remember  finding 
much  that  was  quaintly  interesting  in  the 
pattern  of  the  Oriental  rug.  I  observed, 
also,  that  my  shoes  were  muddy,  and 
thought  of  the  miserable,  thawing,  Janu- 
ary weather  outside.  Then  I  realized  that 
my  remark  was  inadequate;  that  the  as- 
sistant was  looking  keenly  at  me,  and  that 
the  tall,  somber,  immaculate  figure  was 
still  standing  in  relief  against  the  door. 

"Then,  the  next  thing  to  do  is — get 
better,"  I  added,  hardly  knowing  what  I 
was   saying. 

For,  after  the  first  sense  of  wonder  at 
the  sudden  truth,  the  truth  lost  all  sig- 
nificance. A  simile  might  be  that  of  a  man 
who  has  been  struck  down  and  is  Instantly 
conscious  that  he  has  been  hurt,  before  he 
loses  his  senses.  I  had  been  told  that  X 
had  tuberculosis  of  the  lungs.  I  was 
vaguely  glad  that  the  doctor  had  used  a 
bludgeon  instead  of  the  rack.  I  also  felt 
a  decided  relief  to  know  that  the  long 
doubt,  the  long  fear,  the  long  suspense 
were  at  an  end.  .  .  .  The  doctor  was  speak- 
ing again. 

"Dr.  M here,  will  tell  you  what  you 

ought  to  do.  Of  course,  you  will  have  to 
leave  the  city  at  once.     Tell  him  all  about 


12 


your  private  affairs.  He'll  advise  you  for 
the  best.  Sorry  I  can't  find  time  to  talk 
with  you  myself.  But,  whatever  you  do, 
my  boy,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  soften- 
ing of  manner,  "don't  get  the  blues.  Keep 
up  your  courage.  Fresh  air — fresh  eggs — 
and  read  Robert  Louis  Stevenson." 

Then  the  hands  clasped  behind  the  doc- 
tor adroitly  turned  the  door-knob  and  the 
somber,  immaculate  figure  vanished. 

/|pEAT  was  all.  The  fiat  had  been  issued. 
^^  Tuberculosis  of  the  lungs.  Leave  the  city 
at  once.  Fresh  air — fresh  eggs — and  read 
Eobert  Louis  Stevenson.  ...  I  hardly  knew 
what  the  assistant  was  saying.  It  was  a 
jumble  of  advice,  sympathy,  hope  and — 
fresh  eggs.  My  mind  was  still  upon  the 
great  man's  words.  Their  meaning  v^as 
beginning  to  be  clear.  I  was  reviving  from 
the  bludgeon  blow  and  remembering  what 
had  happened  at  the  instant  of  receiving 
it. 

At  first — it  was  all  very  interesting.  Like 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  I  would  be  a  cen- 
ter of  attraction,  anyway.  It  is  human  to 
love  to  be  interesting,  even  in  an  unpleas- 
ant way.  There  were  pleasing  features, 
too,  for  me.  I  must  leave  the  city.  To  get 
out  of  foggy,  sloppy  New  York  in  January 
was  almost  worth  having  tuberculosis  for. 
Leaving    New    York,    too,    meant    leaving 


13 


business.  Here  was  an  extended  vacation 
in  sig-ht.  It  would  not  be  like  the  vacation 
of  a  really  suffering  man — the  joyless, 
daily  routine  of  pain;  rather  it  would  be 
an  unlimited  holiday  with  a  permanent  ex- 
cuse for  it.  It  mig-ht,  indeed,  be  at  my 
employers'  expense.  .  .  . 

Dr.  M was  still  talking".     It  would 

be  necessary  for  me  to  g-o  to  the  moun- 
tains; to  some  place — say,  the  Adiron- 
dacks — ^where  it  is  cold  and  dry.  I  would 
not,  of  course,  be  able  to  work — for  a 
while.  I  must  lie  in  a  chair,  so  that  the 
lesion  in  the  lung-  mig-ht  heal.  What  were 
my  means,  by  the  way?  Was  I  dependent 
on  anyone?    Was  anyone  dependent  on  me? 

That  is  as  far  as  Dr.  M got.     At 

least,  it  is  as  much  as  I  remember  of  his 
r<imarks.  Like  a  flash,  the  truth  stood  up 
in  naked  horror  before  my  mind's  eye.  I 
felt  the  flail  of  the  pitiless  white  plague 
descend  upon  my  raw  senses,  just  as  it 
daily  descends  on  thousands  of  victims  in 
doctors'  of&ces  the  world  over.  The 
phantom  of  the  white  death  had  blocked 
the  threshold  of  life;  swept  the  ground 
from  under  my  feet;  deprived  a  lad  of  his 
earning  capacity;  stolen  his  independence; 
robbed  others  of  his  support;  made  vain 
his  every  ambition;  reduced  him  and  his 
to  the  mercy  of  Chance  and  Charity,  and 


14 


banished  him  to  exile  among  fellow  victims 
of  the  same  scourge. 

I  would  not  be  able  to  work.  ...  I  must 
lie  in  a  chair.  .  .  .  The  enormity  of  the 
calamity  was  too  much  for  the  mind  to 
grasp  at  first.  Perhaps  I  displayed  some 
levity  in  bidding  the  doctor  goodbye.  Five 
minutes  later  I  astonished  an  Irish  bar- 
tender with  a   speech  like  this: 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  had  never 
saved  any  money,  and  you  and  your  folks, 
say,  were  dependent  on  the  salary  you 
earned,  and  a  doctor  around  the  corner 
told  you,  five  minutes  ago,  that  you  had 
tuberculosis  of  the  lungs  and  would  have 
to  quit  work  and  lie  in  a  chair  for  the 
rest  of  your  life,  and — " 

"Furst  thing,"  said  the  Irishman,  plant- 
ing a  bottle  and  a  glass  before  me,  "I'd  be 
timpted  to  take  a  drink!" 
TjTlFTEEN  minutes  later  I  was  walking 
up  Fifth  Avenue,  still  too  astounded 
at  the  cataclysm  to  comprehend  it  fully. 
Presently  I  ran  into  a  man  I  was  usually 
anxious  to  avoid.  He  politely  reminded  me 
that  I  still  owed  twenty-four  dollars  on 
"that  old  bill."  When  we  parted  company, 
I  was  somewhat  amused  and  he  seemingly 
somewhat  staggered.  The  idea  of  any 
man  being  interested  in  a  miserable  twen- 
ty-four  dollars! 


15 


I  continued  up  Fifth  Avenue — past  the 
shops  that  were  still  breathing  of  recent 
Christmas  joys — ^past  the  homes  of  the 
rich  and  independent — threading  among- 
the  thousands  who  were  still  unfettered. 
I  was  still  chuckling  over  that  twenty-four 
dollars.  Where  were  the  bills  of  yester- 
day? Where  were  the  dreams  of  yester- 
day? Tumbled  like  card-castles!  I  found 
myself  quoting  Omar  and  vras  conscious 
that  I  was  very  sorry  for  myself.  The 
novelty  of  having  tuberculosis  had  not  en- 
tirely worn  off.  Presently  I  would  have  a 
fine  sensation  to  spring  upon  unsuspect- 
ing friends.  Dramatic  instinct  fairly  rev- 
eled in  the  circumstance.  And  I  would  be 
the  recipient  of  much  sympathy,  which  is 
almost  as  sweet  as  congratulation  to  a 
man  who  is  very  sorry  for  himself. 

But — What  was  to  become  of  me — after 
the  novelty?  I  had  no  money.  Those  who 
were  dependent  on  me  might  help,  me  to 
live  on  love,  but  they,  themselves,  could 
not  live  on  air.  Of  course,  I  had  friends — 
employers,    too.     They   would   probably — 

But  no!  Even  if  I  could  swallow  charity, 
would  it  be  fair  to  my  friends? — ^my  em- 
ployers? It  was  no  fault  of  theirs.  And 
this  meant  years  and  years  of  self-help- 
lessness. True,  they  w^ould  come  to  me 
and  say:  "Better  a  year  or  two  of  cure 
and—" 


16 


Cure!  A  year  or  two!  Dear,  good 
friends,  did  they  believe,  or  did  they  ex- 
pect me  to  swallow,  that  beautiful  old 
argument?  This  was  the  White  Death,  as 
incurable  now  as  ever,  despite  their  sani- 
tariums and  their  simple  life  and  open  air 
and  all  their  faddism.  They  would  send 
me  to  some  living  morgue,  where  animat- 
ed corpses  were  laid  out  in  rows — long, 
haggard,  coughing  lines,  where  the  Last 
Hope  stared  up  at  the  skies  and  wondered 
when  the  hour-glass  would  run  out,  and 
w^hen  there  would  be  an  end  to  the  clinical 
thermometer  and  the  stethoscope  and — 
raw  eggs!  They  would  send  me  there, 
would  they?     Yes — in  a   strait- jacket ! 

I  had  plumbed  the  depths  of  the  tragedy 
by  this  time.  I  had  run  the  gamut  of  every 
emotion,  save  one,  that  besets  the  thou- 
sands of  tuberculosis  victims.  And  the 
particular  one  came  to  me  thus: 

'ji  SAT  in  a  cafe  with  something  amber 
^  and  effervescent  before  me.  I  have 
reason  to  remember  the  date.  It  was 
January  15th,  1907.  My  life  had  gone 
smash — seemingly.  I  could  drag  on  only 
as  a  burden  upon  the  State,  or  upon  the 
charity  of  the  individual.  There  was  in- 
surance on  my  life  to  the  amount  of  $6,000, 
the  premiums  upon  which  I  could  not  hope 
to  continue  to  pay.     If  I  contrived,  some- 


17 


how,  to  pay  them,  it  would  be  depriving 
the  beneficiaries  of  material  comfort  while 
I  lived:  depriving  my  miserable  self  of  the 
wherewithal  necessary  to  obtain  medical 
aid  which  would  bring  me  back  to  active 
life.  If  I  did  not — could  not — pay  the 
premiums  and  the  policies  lapsed,  I  would 
leave  the  beneficiaries  penniless  at  my 
death,  while  I  had  made  my  sickly  self 
comparatively  comfortable  upon  the  sur- 
render  values. 

It  was  a  problem.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  was  neither  lien  nor  special  clause  in 
any  of  the  policies.  Why  not  avoid  the 
poverty  which  must  inevitably  attend  me 
and  mine  through  the  payment  of  the 
premiunas?  Why  not  avoid  the  lapse  which 
would  relieve  me,  but  leave  others  un- 
provided? Why  not  anticipate  the  "White 
Death — now!  It  would  not  be  cheating 
the  insurance  companies.  They  took  your 
money  as  they  took  the  risk,  and  they 
accepted  the  risk  of  suicide  by  issuing  a 
policy  containing  no  special  clause  against 
it.  Surely  there  would  be  some  charitable 
enough  to  appreciate  the  motive. 

UT  I  leave  that  moral  question  for  others 
■^^  I  never  had  to  solve  it.  In  that  hour 
came  the  news  that  Kingston,  Jamaica,  was 
destroyed  by  an  earthquake.  In  wiping 
out  a  city  and  over  one  thousand  human 


18 


beings  in  thirty  seconds,  the  Inscrutable 
had  tempered  the  wind  to  one  who  was 
shorn  of  everything-  but  his  pen  and  an 
intimate    knowledge    of    the    stricken   city. 


19 


^HE  first  part  of  this  narrative  could  be 
^  nothing-  but  personal,  through  the  in- 
dividual nature  oi  the  experiences  and  emo- 
tions involved  in  that  first  encounter  with 
the  scourge  of  civilization.  But  human 
emotion,  resulting  from  similar  experience, 
is  much  the  same  the  world  over,  and  the 
foregoing  should  fairly  represent  the  gen- 
eral feelings  of  a  great  many  of  the  thou- 
sands who  are  being  exiled  from  active 
life  by  tuberculosis. 

In  the  present,  personal  instance,  the 
tragedy  is  incomplete,  because  of  the 
chance  that  led  the  writer  into  a  business 
which  requires  little  physical  strain.  But 
in  that  army  which  presently  moves  from 
the  doctors'  offices  to  the  Valley  of  the 
Last  Hope,  many — very  many — go  shorn 
of  everything  that  makes  life's  prospect 
bright.  A  writer's  of&ce  is  where  he  hap- 
pens to  be  at  the  time  of  writing  (mine 
is  in  the  Valley  of  the  Last  Hope);  but 
how^  can  a  lawyer  plead  his  case  from  a 
reclining  chair,  or  an  engineer  build  his 
bridges — unless  between  the  spruce-tops 
overhead?  All  trades  and  professions  are 
represented  in  the  Valley,  from  plumbers' 
apprentices   to   college   professors,   and   in 


20 


nearly  every  case  it  is  only  sheer  human 
grit,  or  the  sweetness  of  being"  alive,  that 
nerves  the  white  army  to  life  its  eyes  unto 
the  hills. 

And  where  is  this  Valley  of  the  Last 
Hope?  And  what  is  it?  Thirty  years  ago, 
a  young-  doctor  whose  life  seemed  blighted 
by  the  scourge,  entered  the  Valley.  Sara- 
rac  Lake  was  then  an  Adirondack  hamlet. 
Here  the  young  man  turned  upon  the 
enemy  and  planted  his  standard,  the 
motto  on  which,  I  am  sure,  must  have 
been:  "He  Who  Would  Conquer— Can!" 
Today,  Saranac  Lake  should  be  called 
Trudeau  City,  in  honor  of  the  man  '.x^ho 
made  it  what  it  is — America's  great  hos- 
pital-fortress for  the  prevention,  control 
and   cure    of   tuberculosis. 

Here,  among  a  population  of  5,000,  every 
fourth  human  being  has  "the  trouble." 
Here,  every  man  is  a  soldier,  sworn  against 
the  common  enemy,  and  here  the  sentries 
for  the  common  weal — doctors  and  nurses — 
tread  the  battlements  night  and  day,  arm- 
ed and  arming  and  calling  to  arms  against 
the  phantom  which  stalks   the  universe. 

A  stranger  might  walk  from  end  to  end 
of  Saranac  Lake  and  not  be  aware  of  the 
existence  and  proximity  of  tuberculosis, 
and  such  are  the  health  precautions  that 
he  need  fear  no  danger  of  infection.     Yet 


21 


the  shadow  is  there,  walking-  side  by  side 
with  that  hope  which  springs  eternal.  But 
the  clock  ticks  so  regularly,  the  sand  in 
the  hour-glass  falls  so  unnoticeably,  that 
the  days  pass  as  silently,  as  smilingly  and 
as  philosophically  as  they  probably  do  in 
Sleepy  Hollow.  Beneath  the  surface  there 
is  the  tvsigedy  of  real  affliction,  but  there 
is  also  that  vein  of  human  laughter  which 
no  affliction  can  dow^n. 

'ji  who  had  left  the  doctor's  office,  dazed, 
and  w^as  now,  after  a  year  of  rebellion, 
traveling  to  the  Valley  of  the  Last  Hope, 
knew  nothing  of  all  this.  My  friends  were 
still  bidding  me  "au  revoir"  and,  also,  (I  am 
sure)  goodbye.  It  was  the  drama  which 
can  be  witnessed  any  night  a  few  minutes 
before  the  departure  of  the  Montreal 
express  from  New  York  City.  One  par-" 
ticular  section  of  this  train  might  aptly 
be  termed  the  "Lungers'  Special."  It  is 
fumigated  after  each  trip,  either  way.  But 
when  you  have  traveled  on  it  once  or  twice, 
you  will  see  more  than  tragedy  in  the 
Lungers'  Special — grim  humor  though  it 
may   seem   to    some. 

Nobody  ever  went  to  Saranac  Lake  with 
tuberculosis,  and  nobody  who  ever  leaves 
Saranac  Lake  has  it.  It  is  a  disease  which, 
developed  and  discovered  in  a  doctor's  of- 
fice, mysteriously  disappears  as  the  victim 


22 


leaves  the  doctor's  office.  It  reappears 
about  a  week  after  the  i3atient's  arrival  in 
the  Valley  of  the  Last  Hope  and  disajj 
pears  once  more  the  instant  the  patient 
steps  aboard  a  train  for  the  outside 
world. 

As  a  result  of  this  sensitiveness — super- 
induced by  the  world's  ig-norance  and  a 
dread  that  is  of  the  wrong-  sort — ^five  or 
six  new  patients  who  are  destined  to  be- 
come intimate  during  their  stay  in  the 
Valley,  will  strike  up  acquaintance  with 
Avholesale  prevarication.  Not  one  of  the 
six,  say,  is  bound  for  Saranac  Lake — Oh, 
no!  And  that  coug-h?  Merely  a  little 
throat  trouble.  How  long-  has  he  had  it? 
About  two  weeks.  Dear  me.  .  .  .  And  each 
prevaricator  is  trying  to  suppress  his  own 
little  coug-h  and  hoping  that  when  the  con- 
ductor comes  to  examine  the  tickets,  he 
will  not  say  "Sa-ra-nac  Lake"  with  un- 
necessary   chestiness. 

It  is  a  laughing-tearful  little  comedy, 
this.  That  lad  in  the  corner  there  is  silent 
and  far-eyed.  In  his  mind  there  is  the 
vision  of  endless  years  in  that  hated  place 
—worse  than  Siberia — where  the  very 
buildings  are — or  should  be — "grim,  gaunt 
and  ghastly";  where  wan  skeletons  are 
mustered  on  porticos  and  where  the  night 
is  made  hideous  with  "the  cough  that  won't 
come  off." 


23 


This  broad-shouldered  man,  who  is 
smoking  (by  way  of  proof  that  he  is  not 
a  "lunger")  is  wondering  whether  he  can 
get  his  seat  back  if  he  steps  out  of  the 
smoker  for  a  drink — ^the  last!  for  at  Sara- 
nac  Lake  the  White  Eaven  shall  say  of 
the  Balm  of  Gilead,  "Nevermore!"  And  the 
long,  thin  passenger  with  the  silk  muffler 
is  already  "taking  the  cure"  in  the  airy 
vestibule.  But  none  of  them  is  bound  for 
the  Valley  of  the  Last  Hope.  Never  heard 
of  the  place! 

/|[  EAGEDY  and  comedy  walking  hand  in 
^^  hand.  Shattered  health  and  vain  ambi- 
tions journeying  out  of  the  Valley  of  the 
Lost  Hope  into  the  Valley  of  the  Last 
Hope.  And  who  knows  how  this  will  re- 
turn, and  that — this  in  a  wooden  box?  or 
on  a  stretcher,  going  home  to  die?  or 
that,  bright-eyed  and  robust — cured? 
Cured!     Oh,  beautiful,  oft-whispered  word! 

The  lights  flash  on  the  metals  as  the 
train  bears  them  to  exile.  The  steamers 
on  the  Hudson  turn  their  great  rays  on 
the  flying  express  and  then  turn  them 
away,  as  if  they,  too,  divined  the  secret 
of  that  Pullman.  Albany!  Utica!  Then 
goodbye  to  the  world  of  activity.  The 
Adirondack  wilderness  stretches  away  into 
the  north,  away  to  the  snows  of  that  Val- 


24 


ley  of  the  Last  Hope.    The  exile  climbs  into 
his  berth.     Tomorrow.  .   .  . 

Tomorrow  .  .  .  the  vale  of  the  shadow, 
the  colony  of  vain  dreams.  Some  one 
coug-hs  in  one  of  the  curtained  berths. 
Which  was  it?  The  exile  lies  sick  of  heart, 
weary  of  mind  and  wide  of  eye  ....  To- 
morrow! .  .  .  The  forests  deaden  the  sound 
of  the  toiling  locomotive,  and  the  voice  of 
the  wheels  reiterates  among-  the  woods  a 
song-  of  sullen  rebellion  ag-ainst  the  luck! 


25 


®te  lallru  of  thr  IGast  ^npe 

HEN  I  came  to  it,  dawn  was  an  hour 
old.  Tlie  train  rolled  into  a  sunlit 
town,  built  like  Eome  upon  seven  hills 
that  were  painted  white  and  red  and  yel- 
low with  deep-veranda'd  cottages.  The 
first  touch  of  spring  was  brushing  the 
broken  groves  of  pine  and  balsam  with  a 
delicate  greenery.  The  eyes  looked:  the 
heart  leaped;  and  a  great  load  was  lifted 
from  the  mind.  Was  this  the  place  to 
die?  No,  it  rather  seemed  the  jpl^^ce  to 
live! 

"Saa-ranac  Lake!"  cried  the  conductor 
and  the  broad  "a"  echoed  down  the  vesti- 
bule. 

I  stepped  out,  wondering  if  any  curious 
eyes  would  note  the  arrival  of  this  latest 
Last  Hope.  There  may  have  been  some, 
but  only  one  person  paid  me  the  honor  of 
a  moment's  attention.  I  had  neglected  to 
don  an  overcoat,  in  case — Well,  it  was  the 
month  of  May.  Yet  it  was  chilly  up  there 
in  the  mountains,  and  a  station  official 
remarked  it. 

"Better  put  on  j^our  coat,"  said  he  kindly, 
and  passed  on. 

I  can  do  no  more  or  less,  than  say  that 
this     thousrhtfulness     for     others     is     the 


26 


"atmosphere"  of  the  Valley.  I  had  a  sec- 
ond demonstration  of  it  within  two 
minntes.  A  patient — a  woman  who  was  toe 
weak  to  walk— had  arrived  by  the  same 
train.  They  were  taking-  a  window  out  of 
the  Pullman  that  the  cot  upon  which  she 
rested  might  be  passed  out  more  easily. 
And  porters,  conductors,  hackmen — all  who 
saw — rushed  to  bear  a  hand  to  the  delicate 
task.  I  have  since  learned  that  many  of 
those  Samaritans  were  "lungers"  them- 
selves, although  it  seemed  to  me  at  the 
time  that  they  looked  robust  enough  to 
lift  the  locomotive  from  the  track.  And 
they  did  not  cough — ^not  one  of  them! 

Presently,  a  hackman  lifted  my  suitcase 
and  asked  where  I  was  going.  I  had  a 
letter  to  a  doctor  in  town.  It  was  on  my 
tongue  to  give  the  hackman  the  word,  when 
I  remembered  that,  by  so  doing,  I  would 
betray  myself.  I  said  I  would  walk,  so  as 
to  have  a  look  at  the  town.  I  asked  after 
a  hotel.  He  gave  me  the  required  in- 
formation and  offered  to  drop  my  suit- 
case  there. 

Then  I  started  into  th«^  town,  on  my  first 
exploration  of  the  Valley  of  the  Last  Hope. 
The  first  thing  I  came  to  was  a  cafe.  What! 
The  Demon  here,  too?  This  savored  of 
"high-handed  debauch."  It  suggested  ma- 
terial for  some  Edgar  Allan  Poe — "The 
Masque   of  the  White  Death." 


27 


I  turned  into  a  street  called  Broadway. 
All  the  latest  magazines  and  New  York 
newspapers;  hotels,  stores,  several  sport- 
ing-goods emporia,  remarkably  few 
churches,  not  a  sign  of  a  cemetery  that  I 
could  see,  and,  as  I  afterward  learned,  only 
one  undertaker,  who  was  hidden  away  be- 
hind a  furniture  store.  In  short,  it  was  a 
bully  little  town  full  of  seemingly  bully 
people.  Where  were  the  gaunt  skeletons? 
Where  the  living  morgues?  Why  didn't 
somebody  cough?  Why  didn't  a  white  and 
red  ambulance  appear  on  the  rush?  I  had 
been  tricked  by  a  popular  fiction!  .  .  .  Then 
the  horrible  thought  occurred  that  I  was 
the  only  "lunger"  in  the  whole  town. 

Unhappy,  lonely  and  depressed,  I  came 
to  the  hotel  and  registered.  Here,  again — 
from  manager  to  bell-boy — the  same  gentle 
kindness.  Of  course,  they  knew  I  had 
come  to  die.  In  desperation  I  scowled  at 
the  clerk  and  snarled  like  a  thirsty  pirate: 

"Where's  the  bar,  or  don't  you  sell  rum 
in  these  parts?" 

"Right  straight  through  the  grill-room," 
said    he,    imperturbably. 

Grill-room!  Then  there  w^as  probably  a 
theatre,  perhaps  a  dance-hall,  and — There 
were!  Maybe  somebody  could  suggest  a 
"quiet,  four-handed  game."  Somebody 
could — and  did! 


28 


'JJT  was  either  the  "Masque  of  the  White 
^  Death,"  or  I  had  come  to  the  wrong 
place.  It  was  probably  the  latter.  For 
hours  I  wandered  about  the  town.  Broad- 
way and  Main  Street  were  alive  with  ro- 
bust men — mostly  young — and  neatly,  even 
well-dressed,  women.  The  Town  Clock 
struck  midday  as  cheerily  as  a  cock  w^ould 
announce  sunrise.  True,  I  had  seen  one 
or  two  rather  cadaverous  persons;  I  had 
noticed  that  all  of  the  houses  were  wide- 
piazza'd,  and  on  some  of  those  verandahs 
I  had  seen  some  persons  stretched  out  on 
recliners.  But  those  persons  were  far 
from  ill-looking,  and  all  of  them  were  on 
the  sunny  side,  reading  latest  novels,  or 
talking  and  laughing.  They  might  be 
"consumptives" — a  taboo'd  word,  by  the 
way — but  to  me  they  were  more  like  peo- 
ple suffering  from  that  languorous  ailment 
produced   by   the  hook-worm. 

No,  there  was  some  mistake.  This  was 
not  the  dark  metropolis  of  the  Valley  of 
the  Last  Hope.  I  guardedly  asked  the 
hotel  clerk  if  there  were  "many  lungers 
in  this  section"?  Here  is  his  enigmatic 
reply: 

"A  lady  came  in  here  one  day.  She 
had  a  young  son  with  her."  The  cierk 
was  looking  me  solemnly  in  the  eye.  "The 
young  son  looked  sick.     'Madam,'  I  said  in 


29 


my  kindliest  manner,  'is  your  little  boy  up 
here  for  the  trouble?'  Would  you  believe 
it,  sir?  She  got  quite  ang-ry  and,  after 
g-laring  at  me  for  a  moment,  said:  'Cer- 
tainly not,  sir!  What  an  idea!  Willie — 
cough  for  the  gentleman!'  Willie  coughed." 

Completely  at  sea  as  to  the  point  of  this 
anecdote,  I  went  with  my  letter  to  the 
doctor,  who  was  to  be  my  physician  until 
the  hour-glass  ran  out.  I  asked  him  for 
an  answer  to  the  clerk's  enigma.  The  doc- 
tor laughed^rather  heartily,  I  thought, 
for  one  who  lived  in  the  Valley  of  the  Last 
Hope.  I  confessed  that  I  had  the  trouble. 
I  went  on  to  describe  my  impressions  of 
the  Valley.  He  fairly  roared  with  mirth. 
I  also  described  my  preconceived  ideas  of 
the  Valley.  At  that  he  was  almost  beside 
himself    with   merriment. 

"Why,"  he  finally  managed  to  say,  "we're 
nearly  all  what  you  call  'lungers'  up  here. 
Your  hackman  was  a  lunger.  Probably 
your  hotel  clerk  was,  too.  About  every 
fourth  person  you  saw  was  a  lunger.  Why, 
the  respiration  of  the  Town  Clock — "  And 
he  went   off  again  in  laughter. 

"We?"  I  said  sepulchraily. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  my  physician,  more 
soberly.      "I'm  a   lunger,   too." 

My  dark  castles  and  all  their  moribund 
inhabitants    crumbled   to    dust.     This   was 


30 


my  Valley  of  tlie  Last  Hox^e.  But  I  was 
yet  to  learn  that  this  real  Saranac  Lake 
which  I  had  found,  was  just  what  down- 
right,  human  bravery  had   made  it! 


31 


Iffarta  attb  MmtxtB 

J^OW,  here  is  one  of  the  strange  things 
^  about  the  Valley  of  the  Last  Hope.  No 
two  persons  in  it  are  quite  in  agreement 
about  it — about  its  success,  its  ultimate  re- 
sult, its  social  conditions  and  moral  influ- 
ence. They  tell  me  that,  with  every  year 
of  residence  in  the  Valley,  a  person's 
viewpoint  changes,  or  becomes  completely 
reversed.  Personally,  I  can  speak  only  in 
months,  but  after  seven  of  them,  my  views 
on  the  subject  have  changed  three  or  four 
times.* 

Coming  from  the  active  world;  filled  with 
one's  own  affliction;  resigned  to  one's  own 
fate  and  predisposed  to  a  gloomy  concep- 
tion of  everything,  the  Valley  of  the  Last 
Hope  bewilders  the  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things.  The  newcomer  finds  cafes, 
grills,  billiard  parlors,  theatre  and  moving- 
picture  shows,  poker  games,  and  other 
things  that  the   mind  associates  with  the 


*  This  was  written  in  1909.  After  five 
years,  I  believe  that  my  opinion  has 
reached  the  permanent  stage.  The  place 
at  first  saddens,  then  inspires,  and,  in  the 
end,  if  it  does  not,  indeed,  mend  human 
bodies,  it  at  least  cures  human  nature  of 
much  pettiness. — S.  C. 


32 


g&j  life;  and  while  the  newcomer  may  be 
agreeably  disappointed  that  the  picture 
is  far  from  gloomy,  he  is  momentarily 
horrified  by  what  his  imagination  suggests 
as  something  akin  to  a  death  orgy. 

Of  course,  he  forgets  that  about  three- 
fifths  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Valley  of 
the  Last  Hope  are  not  "lungers"  at  all,  but 
busy  people  sawing  wood.  How  could  a 
colony  of  nearly  two  thousand  invalids  get 
along  without  a  few  able-bodied  citizens? 
And  how  could  the  able-bodied  ones  get 
along  without  a  few  lively  and  enlivening 
institutions?  Where  such  a  work  as  Dr. 
Edward  L.  Trudeau's  was  being  carried  on, 
and  where  the  thousands  of  ships  that 
came  and  went  spent,  each,  on  an  average, 
one  thousand  dollars  a  year,  a  thriving 
town  like  Saranac  Lake  was  inevitable. 
The  newcomer  soon  gets  rid  of  his  morbid 
viewpoint.  The  material  for  that  "Masque 
of  the  White  Death"  falls  flat  in  a  week. 

The  next  view  of  the  new-come  patient 
is  likely  to  be  one  of  unqualified  enthu- 
siam  over  the  noble,  splendid,  magnificent, 
admirable,  etc.,  work  that  is  being  done  in 
the  Vallej'-  of  the  Last  Hope — a  work  which 
is  intended  to  benefit,  not  only  the  resi- 
dent patients,  but  the  whole  world-wide 
cause  against  tuberculosis. 

The   patient   comes   afilicted.     He   is   un- 


33 


happy  and  lonely.  He  falls  into  the  hands 
of  a  private  physician,  who  knows  just 
exactly  how  he  feels  abont  it,  and  gives 
him  straight  "medicine  talk,"  which  stirs 
the  unfortunate's  hope  again.  Or  he  is 
directed  to  the  tactful  man  who,  as  secre- 
tary of  the  Society  for  the  Control  of 
Tuberculosis,  takes  the  burden  off  his 
hands,  tells  him  plainly  what  he 
cannot  do  and  the  next  best  thing 
that  he  can  do.  And  this  tactful 
manager  of  what  might  be  termed 
the  Clearing-House  of  Trouble,  steers 
the  cheered-up  patient  to  the  maxi- 
mum possible  of  comfort,  cure  and  con- 
tent. It  may  be  to  a  boarding-house,  or 
it  may  be  to  a  sanitarium,  but  wherever 
the  newcomer  goes  (at  this  stage  of  his 
education)  he  is  struck  by  the  brotherly 
effort  which  is  being  made  for  the  victims 
of  tuberculosis,  not  only  at  Saranac  Lake, 
but  at  the  other  institutions  up  and  down 
the  Valley,  of  which  Saranac  Lake  is  only 
the  metropolis. 

At  the  boarding-house,  the  patient  meets 
with  fellows  in  misfortune,  and  the  older 
ones  advise,  console  and  whisper  the  talis- 
manic  w^ord,  "Hope."  In  the  sanitarium  he 
finds  a  sort  of  club,  whose  members  have 
agreed  to  be  contented,  and  to  help  them- 
selves by  helping  one  another,  and  where 


34 


there  seem  to  be  no  rigid  rules  (those 
dreaded  restrictions)  because  the  rules, 
made  for  the  good  of  all,  are  too  blessed 
to  be  broken. 

He  looks  upon  the  Valley  of  the  Last' 
Hope  as  the  Valley  of  Rest  and  Sunshine, 
where  the  human  being  reaches  as  near 
to  perfect  blessedness  as  is  possible  on 
this  suffering  earth,  and  where  the  doc- 
tors and  nurses,  themselves  often  afflicted, 
are  as  ministering  angels.  Indeed,  the 
writer  heard  one  young  woman  say,  in  a 
moment  of  Valley  content: 

"Do  you  know,  I  am  almost  glad  I  got 
tuberculosis." 

IJ^D  there  is  the  cue  to  the  newcomer's 
"^^  next  change  of  view,  and  this  change 
is  the  "pons  asinorum"  of  life  in  the  Val- 
ley of  the  Last  Hope. 

It  is  a  known  fact  that  a  great  many  of 
those  who  have  come  to  the  Valley,  "taken 
the  cure"  and  gone  back  to  the  active 
world,  have  come  back  to  the  Valley 
again,  as  surely  as  the  travelling  New 
Yorker  returns  to  his  Broadway.  This 
question  of  the  "call  of  Saranac" — or, 
strictly,  of  the  Dossible  demoralization  of 
patients  by  too  much  idleness — ^has  been 
argued  to  silence.  Further  argument  of 
the  matter  is  not  proposed  here. 

But  the  patient,  who  is  living  and  learn- 


35 


ing-,  presently  comes  to  the  scoffing-  stag-e. 
He  is  treated  with  Koch's  tuberculin,  say. 
twice  a  week,  and  suddenly  he  comes  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  doctors  don't  know 
anything  about  its  effectiveness  themselves, 
and  that  they  are  making  experiments 
upon  him — a  free-born,  independent,  Am- 
erican citizen!  As  for  the  sanitariums, 
the  patient,  at  the  scoffing  stage,  de- 
nounces them  as  institutions  for  the 
breeding  of  tramps.  The  alleged  patients 
— the  healthy-looking  young  men  in  the 
reclining  chairs — are  a  pack  of  loafers  who 
ought  to  be  at  home  supporting  the  per- 
sons who  are  now  supporting  them!  As 
for  the  w^omen  patients — ^w^ho  have  grown 
plump  and  have  got  the  red  back  to  their 
lips  and  the  sparkle  to  their  eyes — they 
only  hang  on  because  the  men  have  noth- 
ing to  do,  and,  in  consequence,  have  plenty 
of  time  for  flirtation.  (Incidentally,  few 
marriages  have  grown  out  of  such  asso- 
ciations.) 

Also,  the  cynic  points  out,  while  the  line 
of  wiser  patients  in  the  reclining  chairs 
listen  in  sad  silence  (Ah!  if  it  were  only 
true!),  witness  the  patients  who  are  dis- 
charged— cured.  They  never  were  cured. 
You  can't  cure  tuberculosis!  Else  why  did 
they  come  back  after  six  months?  Grant- 
ing that  they  were  cured,  will  the  wiser 


36 


patients,  then,  admit  that  those  who  come 
back  like  the  lazy  life  and  the  flirtations 
and  the  freedom  from  the  financial  respon- 
sibility which  is  being-  shouldered  by  their 
relatives   at   home? 

So  your  tuberculosis  lawyer  arg-ues.  He 
draws  the  picture  of  the  fellow  who,  hav- 
ing spent  six  months  in  a  chair  with  the 
latest  novels,  goes  back  to  the  city,  cured 
of  tuberculosis,  but  inoculated  with  the 
germ  of  downright  laziness.  He  is  also 
full  of  sanitarium  faddism.  He  must  stand 
on  one  leg  and  draw^  three  long  breaths 
every  morning  before  breakfast.  He  must 
never  walk  if  he  can  ride.  At  his  city 
office  he  is  a  fresh  air  fiend  and  the  rest 
of  the  office  staff  is  down  with  the  grippe. 
He  has  also  the  clinical  thermometer  habit 
and  sticks  the  glass  in  his  mouth  once  an 
hour;  and  if,  in  the  rush  of  honest  hard 
work,  he  discovers  that  his  temperature  is 
one-tenth  above  98.6  degrees,  he  takes  to 
bed  until  it  is  normal  again.  Finally,  says 
the  patient  at  the  cynical  stage,  when  he 
has  convinced  his  employer  that  he  was 
not  quite  cured,  or  his  employer  has  con- 
vinced him  of  the  same  thing  (in  order  to 
get  rid  of  him  and  his  fads),  its  heigh-ho 
on  half-pay  for  the  Valley  of  Everlasting 
Idleness  and  the  reclining  chair  and  the 
pretty   girls   and — 


37 


About  this  stage,  the  rebellious  patient 
throws  aside  his  blanket,  springs  from  his 
chair,  refuses  to  "take  the  cure"  any- 
longer,  paints  the  Valley  red  from  end  to 
end,   and — 

When  his  views  have  changed  again,  he 
finds  himself  flat  on  his  back  with  a  little 
glass  stick  in  his  mouth,  a  nurse  at  his  side 
and  a  grave,  but  patient,  doctor  taking  his 
pulse. 

And  now  he  begins  to  understand  the 
real  life  and  methods  and  purposes  of  the 
Valley  of  the  Last  Hope — that  Valley  whose 
light  and  shadow,  comedy  and  tragedy, 
nobility  and  self-sacrifice,  are  here  set 
forth  in  brief. 


38 


7^0  matter  how  dark  a  tragedy  may  be. 
^^  its  somber  nature  must  lend  brilliance 
to  the  faintest  ray  of  sunshine.  So  is  it 
in  our  Valley  of  the  Last  Hope. 

Day  after  day,  month  after  month,  come 
summer,  come  snow,  our  little  world  moves 
on,  hopeless  or  hopeful,  pathetic  or  beau- 
tiful, tragic  or  touched  with  humor — as  a 
whole,  a  commingling  of  all. 

Some  of  us  lie  all  day — every  day — all  the 
year  around — in  the  reclining  chairs,  while 
some  of  us  are  so  far  on  the  road  to  re- 
covery that  we  may  walk,  drive,  pay  calls 
and  even  eat  festive  dinners.  That  hope 
which  is  recognized  as  a  marked  symptom 
of  the  disease,  is  ever  with  us.  That  death 
which  threatens  so  many  of  us,  is  seldom 
thought  about.  It  is  even  considered  in 
bad  taste,  save  in  the  doctor's  private  office, 
to  make  mention  of  the  disease  which  men 
call  tuberculosis.  In  some  places,  even  a 
vague  reference  to  the  "trouble"  entails  a 
small  fine,  w^hich  is  usually  deposited  in 
the  boarding-house  "pig"  and  the  total  sum 
of  fines  eventually  devoted  to  some  little 
charity. 

True,  in  the  solitude  of  his  room,  a  man 
— certainly  a  woman — may    put    down    his. 


39 


or  her,  head  and  "let  go."  And  a  man  may 
say,  as  I  heard  one  do  the  other  day,  "I'm 
so  tired  of  hanging  on  that  I  feel  like  fall- 
ing off!"  But  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
time  those  brave  people  keep  a  stiff  upper 
lip,  each  smiling  that  the  other  may  see 
the  smile,  and  pass  it  along.  So  the  days 
pass,  outwardly  serene.  In  truth,  our  little 
world  is  inwardly  much  happier  than  the 
big  world  might   suppose. 

We  even  have  our  own  jpeculiar  brand  of 
humor.  The  story  of  the  hotel  clerk  and 
Willie  may  not  appeal  to  outside-world 
people,  but  it  is  one  of  the  favorites  of  the 
Valley  folk,  who  have  become  used  Cnot 
hardened)  to  the  grim  side  of  things.  An- 
other favorite  is  the  story  about  the  pati- 
ent who  died  and  went  to  Heaven — -or,  at 
least,  got  as  far  as  the  Golden  Gates. 

"You're  from  the  Valley  of  the  Last 
Hope,"  said  St.  Peter,  eyeing  the  applicant 
for  admission  to  celestial  joys.  The  pa- 
tient  admitted   the   soft  impeachment, 

"Well,  we  don't  let  lungers  in  here,"  St 
Peter  added.  "You'll  have  to  take  a  lower 
stall." 

The  patient  j)atiently  descended  to  the 
gates  of  the  Other  Place.  The  Wicket- 
keeper — a  plumber  he  had  been  in  life — 
asked  the  usual  questions.   Finally  he  said: 

"No.     We  don't  take  lungers  in  here!" 


40 


"Why  not?"  asked  the  patient,  wonder- 
ing- where  he  could  go.     "St.  Peter  said — " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  horny 
official,  winking.  "St.  Peter  can  say  what 
he  likes,  but  the  last  lunger  w^e  let 
in  here  left  the  windows  open  over  night, 
so  that  all  the  fires  went  out  and  the  Devil 
got  the  grippe!" 

I^HE  Valley  has  a  vernacular  of  its  own. 
too.  We  speak  of  a  man  having  the 
"Saranac  mood"  w^hen  he  evinces  a  mark- 
ed desire  to  slay  somebody,  even  if  it  be 
himself.  The  everlasting  clinical  thermo- 
meter is  referred  to  as  a  "worry  stick," 
and  its  aim  in  life,  the  "temp."  That 
aimless  watch-you-don't-overdo-it-kind-of- 
walk  of  the  exercising  patient  is  known 
as  the  "T.  B.  Tread." 

Even  the  eminent  Koch's  tuberculin, 
which  is  used  as  an  immunizing  agent, 
does  not  escape  banter.  It  is  usually  in- 
jected into  the  patient's  back  and  is  af- 
fectionately referred  to  as  "my  little  jab,'' 
or,  irreverently,  as  "bug-juice"  or  a  "sub- 
cutaneous cocktail."  One  patient  of  a 
rhyming  turn  of  mind  immortalized  the 
serum  in  verse  while  he  (the  penitent  rhy- 
mer) was  suffering  from  a  reaction 
brought  about  by  his  own  reckless  beha- 
vior.     The    lines    so    tickled    some    of    the 


41 


Valley  folk  that  they  tnay  be   of  interest 
to  the  uninitiate : 


?T  HEY  say  that   in  forbidden  liquors  dwell 
W     Serpents  and  pale-eyed  monsters  out  of 

H— 11; 
They  say  that  in  the  potion  Juliet  drank, 
There   lurked   a   poison,    drowsy,    dim   and 

dank; 
But,  0!   Tuberculin,  thou  art  the  King- 
Of  all  the  serums  jabbed  for  anything. 
Thou  mak'st  me  feel— when  I  can  feel  at 

all- 
Like  to  the  sphere  when  players  swat  the 

ball; 
Or  as  if  Devils,  bursting-  from  Gehenna, 
Were  mining-  me  with  picks  and  drills  and 

senna. 
Seven    days    a    week    my    back    is    like    the 

cushion 
Where  thrifty  housewives  pins  and  needles 

push  in. 
Kather  a  Jag-  for  me  the  Hotel  Berkeley  in 
Than  any  Jab  of  any  d d  Tuberculin! 

And  we  have  our  romance,  too — and  our 
romances.  It  is  but  natural  that,  where 
opposite  sexes  are  thrown  tog'ether  ^vith 
common  affliction  and  mutual  sympathy, 
there  should  be  those  harmless  flirtations 
of  which  the  cynic  so  furiously  rag-ed.  In 
summer,  especially,  when  all  the  Adiron- 
dacks  are  clothed  in  a  splendor  of  green, 
you    can   see   them — ^I   mean   the    couples — 


42 


strolling"  along  a  certain  lovely  spot  of  the 
Valley,   known  as   "Lover's   Lane." 

They  call  this  thing-  "cousining-,"  as  de- 
scriptive of  the  platonic  nature  of  the  in- 
timacy, although  one  might  ask  if  the  old 
English  "cozening"  is  not  the  spelling  of 
the  word.  This  "cousining"  continues 
through  the  winter,  too.  When  the  air  is 
dry  and  the  thermometer  is  below  zero, 
the  sleigh  bells  drown  many  a  whisper 
coming  from  the  pile  of  buffalo  robes  as 
the  runners  glide  over  the  snow.  And 
there  are  special  favors  to  special  swains 
at  the  Christmas  celebration — which  is  jusi 
as  joyous  in  the  Valley  as  elsewhere,  some- 
how— and  marked  attentions  when  the 
glorious  w^inter  carnival  comes  in  February. 

But,  as  has  been  remarked,  few  mar- 
riages result  from  these  little  pairings  oi 
congeniality.  Yet  the  blind  god  is  here, 
too,  his  arrows  more  flinty  to  meet  the 
bitter  irony  of  the  situation.  When  true 
love  enters  here,  it  is  often  tragic,  but 
very   often  beautiful. 

2|i  ERE  is  the  man,  afflicted,  and  here  is 
™  the  woman,  come  to  him  from  the 
world  outside,  which  she  has  forsaken  for 
his  sake,  to  be  with  him  to  the  end.  Here 
too,  is  the  woman,  afflicted,  and  the  man 
unafflicted,    coming   at   intervals    from    the 


43 


city  to   drain   to   the  last  drop   the   sweet 
measure  of  her  presence. 

But  most  beautiful  of  all,  despite  the 
tragedy,  is  where  both  are  afflicted  and 
Love  stands  between  the  reclining"  chairs. 
For  them,  perhaps,  is  but  a  brief  portion 
of  happiness.  Hands  may  join  across  the 
little  space  when  the  lights  are  low.  Thej- 
may  whisper  and  yearn  and  hope,  but  too 
often  the  dream  is  vain.  A  kiss  on  the 
brow — and  then — good-night! 

For  "goodbye"  is  the  hardest  word  to 
say  in  the  Valley.  It  is  seldom  said.  Some- 
one passes  in  the  night.  There  is  a  little 
hush:  then  the  shadow  is  bravely,  resolute- 
ly forgotten.  But  sterner  than  this  re- 
minder of  death  is  the  home-going  of  one 
who  has  been  cured  and  is  now  going  back, 
a  militant  missionary  himself,  to  teach  the 
prevention  and  cure  which  he  has  been 
taught.  The  hearts  of  those  he  is  leaving 
are  heavy,  while  their  spoken  words  are 
light  and  their  handclasp  firm.  There  is 
no  envy,  but — 

ESPITE  one's  best  efPorts  to  smile  the 
tears  will  come.  The  shadow  hangs 
heavy  upon  the  world.  But  who  shall  say 
that  the  exiles  to  the  Valley  of  the  Last 
Hope  are  not  a  brave  little  band?  Their 
motto  is  Faith,   Hope  and  Love — Faith  in 


44 


Inscrutable   Wisdom — Hope   for  the  best- 
Love  toward  one  another.     So  be  it! 


45 


^amt  (§pxnian5 

*■  MATCHING  the  Hour-Glass"  deals  in  a 
*^inost  realistic  and  touching-  way 
with  a  wide  spread  field  of  human  emotion 
which  has  been  generally  shunned  owing" 
to  its  sadness.  Mr,  Chalmers,  from  the 
standpoint  of  personal  experience,  has 
shown  that  the  darkness  of  the  shadow 
makes  the  contrasting  light  more  lumin- 
ous; that  the  great  lesson  the  tuberculous 
must  learn  is  that  the  conquest  of  fate 
comes  not  by  rebellious  struggle,  but  by 
acquiescence;  and  that  even  when  his 
pathetic  struggle  for  health  fails,  his  life 
may  stand  for  the  victory  of  the  con- 
quered.— E.    L.    Trudeau. 


"The  article  by  Mr.  Stephen  Chalmers  is 
the  most  vivid  description  I  have  seen  of 
the  feelings  that  come  to  "us  lungers." 
This  is  the  sort  of  literature  that  will  do 
more  toward  making  healthy  people  ear- 
nestly desire  to  avoid  tuberculosis  than  all 
the  lengthy  treatises  that  have  been  writ- 
ten toward  that  end." — Thomas  Crawford 
Galbreath,  The  National  Association  for  the 
Study   and   Prevention   of   Tuberculosis. 

^N^  wCr  ^IP" 

"  It  is  not  only  very  interesting  but  of 
so  healthy  a  tone  that  it  cannot  help  b\h 
do  much  good." — Dr.  Livingston  Farrand, 
Executive  Secretary,  The  National  Associa- 
tion for  the  Study  and  Prevention  of 
Tuberculosis. 


46 


"It  touched  me  by  its  grace,  its  sincerity 
and  its  fine  optimism.  No  one  can  write 
of  such  a  thing*  from  the  outside.  Like 
divine  revelation,  it  is  not  a  statement,  but 
an  experience." — James  Creelman. 


Adversity  is  sometimes  hard 
on  a  man ;  out  for  one  man 
Tvno  can  stand  prosperity  there 
are  a  kundrecl  tkat  will  stand 
adversity. — Carlyle. 


X 


It  IS  a  gooci  and  safe  rule  to 
sojourn  m  every  place  as  if  you 
meant  to  spend  your  life  tkerc, 
never  omitting  an  opportunity 
of  doing  a  kindness^  or  speaking 
a  true  word,  or  making  a  friend. 

—Ruskin. 


^z 


DUE  DATE                             I 

\$im  H 

Y  jW^ 

5j|y/|Lii  (p^  V   ,. 

-^       \ 

mxi 

U  ia^o     f 

Printed 
in  USA 

C55 


EC512 
Chalmers 

Watching  the  bwr-gl 


jf^J/Z 


(Ts 


COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARIES 


0037541218 


